


autumn corpse

by gravemaiden



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma, Creepypasta, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Paranoia, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Psychosis, Revenge, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Underage Drinking, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26973511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravemaiden/pseuds/gravemaiden
Summary: Revenge had seemed easier in his imagination.They all deserve it. That's what Jeff tells himself.
Relationships: Jeffrey Woods | Jeff The Killer/Original Character(s), Nina Hopkins | Nina the Killer/Jeffrey Woods | Jeff the Killer
Kudos: 15





	1. freaking out

“Take it.” 

Jeffrey Woods shifts, threading his fingers through the stained shag carpet, and looks past the dizziness and the smoke to the cigarette Logan’s holding out to him. Jeff takes a drag, then a swig of cheap liquor, and coughs the smoke out. 

He leans back against the edge of the couch, digging his toes into the carpet, humming along to the stereo playing quiet in the background. He’s been drunk for a while now, just waiting until Logan falls asleep so he can finally relax. He presses a fist against his stomach to muffle the sound of it growling and lets his head fall against the cushions. 

It’s one in the morning when Logan finally passes out from either the smoke in the room or the alcohol. Jeff counts the seconds to five minutes under his breath and then slowly,  _ slowly _ , leans over, smelling the liquor on his lips as Logan takes uneven breaths. 

Jeff raises a shaky, burn-scarred hand to Logan’s face and brushes his knuckles against the man’s jaw. When Logan twitches but otherwise does not stir, Jeff lets out a shaky breath and draws back, pushing himself up. His knees pop as he gets up and stumbles to the kitchen. 

The sink creaks as he pours himself a glass of water and chugs it, coughing past the burn in his throat and chest. It crawls up to his eyes, the burning, and he wipes his tears on the back of his hand.

Humming along to the music, he makes himself a cup of peach tea and settles in front of Logan, cross-legged on the carpet. He holds his cup close to his chest and watches Logan, the spit mixed with liquor dripping down the side of his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he snores, his eyes fluttering behind his lids. 

Jeff’s mind goes astray, thinking of dozens of situations where Logan could wake up and lunge at him or press him into the gross carpet and have fun with him for a while. 

He allows himself to glance at the pocket knife he’d stashed under the couch. Jeff’s gotten good at quickly flipping it open. He could get away with it, too - slash Logan’s throat, go for his eyes, maybe lodge it in the side of his head. Or maybe his Adam’s apple. It wouldn’t move anymore. Wouldn’t make Jeff’s skin crawl. 

He sits until his stomach starts to ache, and then slowly makes his way to the bathroom with the cup of half-cold tea. Slides down to the cold tiles, presses his sweaty forehead against them and wraps his arms around his stomach. Chokes back tears and closes his eyes. 

Jeff really has no idea how he got himself in this situation. Hitchhiked on the side of the road for a while, praying nobody recognized him from the news. Found Logan, decided to offer a blowjob for a place to stay. Lied about his age. He feels gross about it. Not just the lying, but all the running, the paranoia when he sees a cop car, the picking pubic hairs from between his teeth in a dirty bathroom. 

When he opens his eyes, it’s been a couple of hours and he’s drenched in sweat. But the pain is gone. 

Jeff slowly gets up, leaving the tea on the ground - not like Logan will notice, he has dishes and trash stacked in just about every corner - and slowly tiptoes back into the living room. Logan is still passed out. 

It’s a trailer, not much exploring to do. Jeff invites himself into Logan’s bedroom, messes around in cardboard boxes and dresser drawers. He finds some condoms (could be useful) and some money ( _ definitely _ useful). He fishes a gym bag out of the closet and starts packing some of Logan’s clothing. The man is bigger than him, so he doubts his clothes will fit well, but it’s better than a bloodstained hoodie and damp, dirty jeans. 

Deodorant. Leaves the toothbrushes, he doesn’t trust them. Doesn’t bother packing a hairbrush, he never brushes his. Some more money, a credit card that’s probably going to get declined immediately. A few packs of cigarettes. Jeff doesn’t even like smoking. 

He finds an ipod under a pile of shit-stained underwear. It’s old - at least he thinks so, Jeff never had newer stuff - but it still turns on. Jeff slides to the floor and scrolls through Logan’s playlist. Lots of rap. Slipknot. Some Eminem, of  _ course _ , he’s a skinny white guy who thinks he’s tough shit. It’s probably going to make his head hurt, but he packs the ipod anyways. He hopes that kind of shit can’t be tracked. 

Jeff empties his own bag; not much in the way of necessities, just some spare changes of underwear and socks, some cream for his scars he stole from a Walgreens, a medical sewing kit, some more shit he probably doesn’t need. 

If Logan wakes up, comes into his bedroom and finds Jeff going through and stealing his shit, he’ll probably beat the hell out of him. Jeff glances over his shoulder. The hallway is empty. He can hear Logan snoring in the living room. 

_ I’ve got to kill him.  _ Jeff pauses as he’s zipping the gym bag.  _ He’s seen me _ . What would the police even do, if they caught him? Jeff’s seen some TV shows where they show the suspect photos of their victims. He doesn’t want to see his mom and dad like that. Or Liu. 

Not knowing somebody else did it. 

Logan pulled chunks of his hair out and choked him. He deserves to die, doesn’t he? 

The air in the living room snatches his breath away and burns its way up his nostrils. Jeff stares at Logan’s grimy, unkempt face. Thinks of the taste of his dick. He raises a hand to the sore spot on the back of his head and grimaces. 

Yeah. He deserves to die. What’s a Confederate-flag-waving druggie like him doing to help others, anyways? He was just a way to get a little bit of money so Jeff can get the fuck out of the city. 

Jeff fishes out the pocket knife and flicks it open. He’s only ever used it on himself. He doesn’t know the first thing about killing someone. 

He does what he’s seen in movies. Straddles Logan’s hips, heart pounding in his throat, and slowly brings the knife to the man’s throat. He doesn’t think slicing his throat will work. Knife probably isn’t sharp enough. 

Logan’s eyes flick open. 

Jeff’s breath catches in his throat. There’s a split second where neither of them move, Jeff frozen in fear and Logan groggy and drunk. The cool metal pressing against his throat seems to sober him up quick enough. Jeff watches Logan’s pupils dilate, gasps when the man grabs his wrist and twists, forcing him to drop the knife. 

“The  _ fuck _ ?” Logan snarls. Jeff can taste the liquor on his breath. The back of his head throbs and he snaps into action. 

He slams his head forwards, feels and hears the break of Logan’s nose. Logan shouts and lets go of Jeff’s wrist to cradle his nose. Jeff lunges, digging lines into Logan’s neck. Holds him down with almost inhuman strength while he writhes, claws at his arms, chokes through blood. 

Logan goes still. Jeff stares at his blue face for a moment, as he comes back to himself. He slowly releases his grip on Logan’s neck and slides off his lap, backing up until he’s against the wall. 

“I’m a kid,” he whispers, as if that’s any justification. “He deserved it..” 

He deserved it. That’s what Jeff decides to tell himself. 


	2. oh my dear lord

Jeff finds himself comfortable on a park bench, eating stale gingersnaps and watching a group of birds play in a puddle. 

There’s a man that’s been staring at him for the longer half of the past hour. The man’s kids are playing at the park a few yards away. The empty spots on the bench haven’t escaped his notice. The father would rather stand than sit next to Jeff. 

A red-headed woodpecker. Mostly robins, but a few bright red cardinals here and there. A little bluebird near the fence. Jeff’s father had always watched the birds from their window, always felt so proud when he could recognize their species. 

That man is inching closer to the bench. Jeff tries not to look at him, fearing the eye contact and the possibility of being recognized, another Logan situation, and keeps his gaze on the birds. The bluebird has finally joined the others at the pool. Jeff thinks, idly, that being a bird must be better than being him. He wonders what it’s like to fly. Thinks about that suicide in his freshman year, the kid who jumped off the building. Maybe they wanted to know too. 

“Excuse me, sir.” Jeff looks up at the man, buries his chin in his scarf so he can’t see the scars. “Are you okay?” 

Jeff understands how he must look. He hasn’t showered in a few days - can’t sneak into a gym without immediately getting kicked out. He’s barely sober, probably looks like he’s been crying for a couple hours. Which, to be fair, Jeff’s done a lot of crying recently. 

“I’m fine,” he says, his throat itching. Hasn’t been doing a lot of speaking, either. “Just waiting for someone.” 

Who the hell would he be waiting for? Jeff has nobody now. 

The man leaves him alone - must get the hint, if there was one. Jeff’s used to the stares by now. He can pick apart the disgust from the recognition. He’s got his face on posters, on Facebook articles, on the news. He cuts his bangs awkwardly, relies on his hair’s unwashed fluffiness and tangles to hide the scars. 

Jeff picks at a scab on his knee, watching as a girl throws a doll down an olive-colored plastic slide. He had a playground in his neighborhood, back before they moved to that shitty Conservative urban hellscape. All the slides were made of metal, so they’d either burn you to a crisp in the summer or the little bolts would shock the everloving shit out of you as you slid down. 

He notices that the man is now talking on his phone, throwing him glances every now and then. Jeff’s heart leaps into his throat and his skin starts to prickle, like dragging a knife down a porcelain plate. He quickly loops the strap of his gym bag over his shoulders and hops up, keeping his eyes on the ground as he heads towards the city. 

_ Am I going crazy _ ? Jeff remembers asking his old therapist - the one before the new house, before those fucking kids down the street. 

_ Your brain is telling you things are happening that aren’t,  _ she told him.  _ You have to learn to identify what is real and what isn’t.  _

He stopped doing that a long time ago.

The man is talking to his wife about Christmas presents. He isn’t calling the cops.

Jeff still leaves. Convinces himself that it isn’t safe. 

Better safe than sorry. He’s learned that the hard way.

  
  



	3. crème brûlée

It burns his throat when he vomits.

He wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand and shifts, avoiding the needles on the ground, fumbling for the toilet paper thrown carelessly behind the toilet. Jeff squeezes his eyes against the pain and the way the walls shake from the music pounding throughout the house.

Jeff presses his sweaty back against the cool tile of the shower and sits there, trembling and holding his stomach, praying he doesn’t throw up again. He doesn’t think he has the strength to make it to the toilet, and he might actually fucking die from embarrassment if he gets caught vomiting all over the bathroom floor in some random guy’s house. 

Once his stomach feels settled, he slowly slides himself across the floor. Jeff wrenches the doors to the cabinet under the sink open and rummages through it. He finds a small box of prescription medication - guess the owner hadn’t been expecting him to find this bathroom (it’s in his bedroom, after all, and Jeff would probably get his ass beat if someone came in here and found him). He doesn’t know the fancy names for this shit, just recognizes the Xanax. 

He takes two. Doesn’t bother reading the dosage. Jeff chokes them down, swallows a mouthful of spit, and leans against the wall for support as he staggers to his feet. The music will hide the way he wheezes in pain when he walks. The blacklight and dim atmosphere will hopefully hide  _ him _ . He doesn’t know the guy who’s throwing this party.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, squinting once he walks out into the hallway and is slammed with the music and flashing lights. Some drunk girl gives him a couple of glowsticks and a kiss on the cheek, and the next thing he knows he’s in the kitchen struggling against the burning of alcohol.  _ Again _ . 

A boy catches Jeff’s eye. He’s, what, maybe his age? Seventeen, eighteen? Full of piercings, tall as fuck, seems to be pretty comfortable here. Looks like some of the shit he has might be worth something. 

He shuffles past a group of guys doing body shots and tries to steel his nerves. “Hi.” 

It takes a moment for the guy to react. The way he leans against the counter and lifts a brow has Jeff’s stomach doing somersaults. “Hey.” 

Jeff doesn’t know what to say. He’s never really flirted with someone. Is this even flirting? God, he’s fucking pathetic. “I like your piercings.” 

Holy shit. 

But the guy laughs - that’s good, right? He has a nice laugh. Nice teeth, too. “Thanks. Did them all myself. What about yours?” 

Jeff bites the inside of his cheek. “Oh, those aren’t . . . those aren’t piercings . . .” 

“They’re not?” He leans forwards and brushes Jeff’s messy hair out of his face, taking in the scars. Jeff feels like vomiting again. He isn’t sure if it’s the anxiety or if he  _ actually  _ needs to throw up. “Oh, they’re scars. I see. How’d that happen?” 

“I, uh . . .” Jeff regrets doing this. Fuck. “I did it.” 

The guy’s eyebrows nearly go halfway up his forehead. His eyes widen and in the blue light Jeff can see just how blown his pupils are. Maybe he’s too drunk to remember him, if he ends up realizing later on who Jeff is. “ _ You  _ did that? Shit. Why?” 

“Uh, you know, just . . .” He’s leaning closer. Jeff doesn’t smell alcohol on his breath. Smells like - mint bubblegum? Is he not drunk? “I don’t know. Thought it’d look cool.” 

The guy chuckles. “Well, it looks cool.” 

Jeff’s never willingly kissed someone. He isn’t really sure what to do when he’s kissed - he likes the feeling of the guy’s piercings against his mouth, but he doesn’t know how to react to the lack of aggression. This all seems way too sudden. Maybe that guy  _ is  _ drunk. Maybe  _ Jeff’s  _ the one who’s too drunk for his own good, because he’s kissing back. 

He likes it, at least. 

Jeff weaves his way through the crowd, eyes steady on the hand around his. He’d lead to the bedroom beside the one he came out of. He’s grateful for the way the music is muffled when the door is shut. 

A lamp is flicked on and his heart almost stops. 

“Oh, God,” the guy’s laughing, rubbing his eyes. Jeff waits for the look of disgust when his eyes adjust to the light and he finally realizes what he looks like. Maybe this is a setup. God, what if he knocks him out and he wakes up in a jail cell? 

Jeff lets himself be dragged over towards the bed, worms chewing away at his stomach as he tries not to start hyperventilating. A panic attack here isn’t a good idea. He swallows the feeling and instead focuses on letting the other man lift his hoodie off. 

He’s straddling him before he really knows what he’s doing. Jeff’s never been in a position like this - not willingly - and he can’t say he doesn’t like it. 

Soft hands travel up the sides of his stomach. Jeff shuts his eyes when the man trails a finger down his arms. “What’s this?” he asks quietly. 

“A, uh, a chemical burn.” Jeff’s voice is hoarse. 

It’s still dim, but light enough for the guy to be able to take in the full extent of Jeff’s scarring. Jeff is gently pushed off the man’s lap, and for a moment he thinks he’s actually getting kicked out, but then he hears a zip. 

“No, look at this,” he’s laughing, struggling to pull his pants off. Jeff tries his best to ignore the tent in his boxers and instead takes in the scar starting right under his belly button and trailing all the way down to the top of his knee. “Spilled a mix of boiling water and bleach on myself two years ago.” 

“Fuck,” Jeff breathes. He awkwardly reaches forward to feel it, on the inside of his thigh. Notices how he sucks in a breath and twitches. “How much did that hurt?” 

“Probably not as bad as cutting your cheeks open, but I was in the hospital for a month.”

“Shit. I was in the hospital for . . . three months, I think. Most of it was in the ICU.” Jeff leans forwards and moves to sit on the man’s thighs. He leans forwards and kisses him, and holy shit he kisses back, and the strength behind it makes his head swim. 

Jeff’s hands move from his partner’s chest to the edge of his boxers, cautiously tugging at them. Hazel eyes snap open. 

“What’s with the rush, pretty boy?” he says with a shit-eating grin. 

Jeff rolls his eyes and tries to ignore how he blushes under the compliment. “Do you want an introduction?” 

“Hmm. Sure. What’s your name?” 

“. . . Jeff. Yours?” 

“Oliver.” 

Jeff takes a shaky breath and moves to kiss him again. “Okay. Oliver.” He tugs Oliver’s boxers down, takes a glance, and pauses. Isn’t sure if he should choke on his spit or start laughing. 

Oliver’s laughing, though. He sounds a bit embarrassed. “Sorry, forgot to mention that.” 

He’s got, fuck what’s it called - a ladder piercing, at least six of them, down the length of his dick. And there’s a  _ lot  _ of space for it - he’s  _ big.  _ Big enough to make Jeff reevaluate his decision. 

“Shit, okay,” Jeff breathes. He isn’t sure what to do now. Usually when he has sex, it’s with a man in his mid-twenties who can’t keep it up for more than ten minutes. This is different. He feels safe. There’s no need to rush. 

Oliver nudges Jeff’s side with his knee and moves until Jeff’s flipped onto his back, blowing hairs out of his face. Oliver wraps Jeff’s legs around his waist and lifts his hips. 

“You good?” he hums, leaning over to his jacket with one hand and wrestling Jeff’s baggy jeans open with the other. A few coins fall out of the pockets, followed by some wrappers and lint balls. 

“I’m good,” Jeff replies evenly. He tries not to look down at Oliver, scared at what he’ll find in the man’s expression, and listens to the sound of shuffling and the  _ pop  _ of a cap. The scent of artificial cherries hangs in the air. 

Oliver does a good job at distracting him with kisses and lingering touches over his scars. Jeff barely notices the burn of his fingers - even if he did, he wouldn’t mind; it’s not like any of his other brief sexual partners ever cared to stretch him properly before they shoved their dicks into him, the bastards. 

Once Jeff’s hazy brain finally realizes that he’s not getting tricked or kicked out, he settles into the blankets and spreads his legs a bit, moaning against Oliver’s mouth as his fingers do some  _ godly  _ shit down there. 

“Whose bed is this?” Oliver snickers. 

Jeff’s laugh cuts into a strained groan as Oliver finds that spot that makes his head spin. And then he’s empty, and raising his head, opening his mouth to complain. He stops when he sees what Oliver’s doing with the lube. 

His head flops back against the pillows and he stares up, trying to calm himself.  _ He’s not leaving you like this. Stop worrying.  _ But he can’t. He feels like he’s going to throw up. 

Oliver’s eyes are shining so prettily in the lamplight. “Still doing good?” 

Jeff nods, waits for a moment, and then gives verbal consent - and then, fuck, he’s being filled so fast, fuck _ , fuck - _

He bottoms out, waits for a few moments that seem to drag on forever - checks on Jeff with his face all cute and flushed - and then starts with slow, shallow thrusts. And Jeff can feel  _ every single piercing.  _

There’s hardly time for him to breathe through it. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed by the sounds spilling from his mouth. He’s not aware of much - just Oliver’s piercings, the music, and how his stomach feels like it’s burning him alive. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Oliver mumbles. He shifts - it’s a bit deeper like that, more intense - and Jeff just pulls at the sheets as Oliver’s thrusts nearly knock the breath out of him. 

Jeff arches and moans, twisting into the sheets until his knuckles are white, and then he’s coming with a shaky sob. And he must black out from the force of it, because when he finally blinks through the stinging sweat in his eyes, Oliver is halfway across the room. 

He’s got some shit in his hands - a damp rag and a tiny plastic shot glass of water. Jeff weakly slicks his damp bangs back to see better and jolts when Oliver sits down and wipes his stomach off. 

“Did you -” Jeff coughs through the sting in his throat. His body is already starting to ache. 

“Yeah, on the sheets. You can thank me later.” Oliver hands him the cup of water, which Jeff takes with a breath of relief. Oliver wipes his forehead off with the rag and bends down to kiss him. 

The nights of sleeping on cold benches and thin, stained mattresses are catching up to him. Jeff tries to keep his eyes open against the heaviness in his lids and the fog over his brain, but with how unfairly  _ soft  _ this bed is and how gently Oliver is tending to him, he ends up falling asleep. 

* * *

When he wakes, he first realizes that Oliver is still there, and the blackout curtains previously hanging over the windows have been moved, allowing in a golden slope of early morning sun. 

Jeff is warm and comfortable under the sheets, and he has no intention of moving until Oliver notices he’s awake and nudges him. “Morning, princess. Better get ready, Tom’s kicking people out already.” 

Jeff groans and curls tighter under the sheets. It’s so warm and soft against his bare skin, nothing like the biting cold outside or scratchy motel blankets. 

“You purr in your sleep,” Oliver says. “You also kicked me in the nuts in the middle of the night, so thanks for that.” 

“You’re welcome,” Jeff says groggily. He’s wrapping the blanket around himself, not ready to leave the warmth just yet, and trying to sit up when he hears a scream and a crash. 

He and Oliver freeze, locking gazes with a breath of shock between them. The shouting gets louder. 

Jeff’s never gotten dressed so fast in his life. He’s running out the door after Oliver, throwing his bag over his shoulder and pulling his hair out of his hoodie, and gags at the stench of sex, alcohol, and weed throughout the house. 

They’re stepping over people passed out in the hallway and broken glass bottles on the way to the kitchen. Jeff’s hand is in Oliver’s, and throughout the anxiety from the noise, his cheeks are burning and there’s a pleasant buzzing in his chest. 

The shouting is coming from Tom, the owner of the house (or, more accurately, the spoiled son of the rich fucks who own the house), and a girl with wild hair and a knife. 

Jeff squeezes into the crowd of shocked bystanders and instinctively reaches for his own knife. 

“Back the  _ fuck  _ up!” The girl raises the knife and Tom stumbles back. She reminds Jeff of Sailor Moon or some shit - she’s got her black hair in space buns, wearing a tank top over a flowery lace kinda thing, along with a blue-green-pink holographic skirt. And she’s . . . wearing a choke collar. 

Once she seems to come into grips with her surroundings, the girl twirls the knife ( _ kinda hot,  _ Jeff thinks) and smiles around at the crowd. “Hi!” she says cheerfully. “I’m Nina. I’m new in town.” 

She slams the knife into the counter - hard enough for it to stick into the wood - and prances off, twirling her arms around her and laughing. The crowd parts like the Red Sea for her. Jeff is stunned. 

“Wow,” he hears Oliver saying. “That was hot.” 

_ Yeah, _ he agrees numbly. 


	4. despicable

In the few weeks following Tom’s party, Jeff spends most of his time between fucking around the public park and sleeping at Oliver’s house. 

Oliver’s 18 and lives on his own, so Jeff doesn’t have to worry about nosy parents. His apartment is always cold and smells like pumpkin spice and vanilla. Jeff had expected something insanely messy out of a young adult’s living space, but Oliver keeps it strikingly clean. Jeff can’t fucking stand it. 

Between trips to the internet cafe, taking cuttings out of newspapers, spending hours sitting over books and printed documents at the library, and begging for information out of independent journalists, Jeff doesn’t have time to talk to Oliver or find out who the girl at the party was. Oliver’s busy with his first year of college anyways, so Jeff keeps his distance. 

He isn’t getting much information. He finds some patterns in fires and disappearances similar to the situation he’s in, but there’s nothing that points to a group of . . . whoever those people were. Finding them won’t be easy. They were all wearing masks, save for the one with  _ insanely  _ pale skin and black eyes and the girl with a clock sewn into a scarred and irritated eye socket. 

Jeff gathers all his shit in one of Oliver’s old binders and heads to his apartment. 

Oliver’s busy cooking something that smells  _ heavenly _ . He’s got a pile of books that probably cost more than the apartment stacked on the counter and his laptop open, occasionally switching between tending to the stove and adding shit to the essay he’s writing. 

Jeff puts his stuff on the small round table and falls into a chair. 

“Welcome back,” Oliver says distractedly, typing at mach speed while the pot on the stove bubbles. 

Jeff rests his chin in his arms. “Whatcha writing?” 

Oliver doesn’t answer him, too focused on the essay and the food on the stove. He turns back to Oliver’s binder and the information inside. Jeff’s never been good at connecting dots - that was his brother’s thing, and now he supposes it’s Oliver’s thing. Oliver had been willing to help, at first. Now he’s too busy focusing on midterms. 

Jeff thumbs through some papers. “Do you think I could ask around the internet? Someone’s had to have a similar experience . . .” 

“Sure,” Oliver says distantly. 

“Do you think they targeted me for a specific reason?” Jeff rubs his forehead and frowns. “Maybe my parents did something. There was this group of kids who always gave my brother shit, maybe . . .” No. Randy and his friends were nothing like these people.

Oliver finally turns to look at Jeff. His eyes are dark. “I think you need to go to the police.” 

Jeff’s heart skips in his chest. Oliver doesn’t know - how could he? He doesn’t read the newspaper, doesn’t turn on the TV. He doesn’t have a big presence on social media. He has no idea that Jeff is wanted for not just the murder of his entire family, but for the suspected break-in of multiple places and the first-degree murder of a few men. 

Jeff didn’t kill his family - that he’s sure of. But he killed Logan. He killed the nameless man before him. And the one before him.

They were self-defense. They were self-defense. They  _ were _ . 

He clears his throat and shifts in the seat, unable to meet Oliver’s sharp gaze. “They won’t help.” They’d never believe him. Not with his history, or the scars on his face and arms. He scratches at his scalp. “I don’t know what to do.” 

Oliver just sighs, leaning against the counter. He tilts his chin, looking up at the ceiling and the plants crawling along the wall. “Yeah, this is a bit too much for me. If you won’t go to the authorities, I say just give it up.” 

“I can’t give it up.” 

Oliver sighs. “Just go back to school, live a normal life. You’ll rot in foster care, but it’s better than sleeping around.” 

A knot sticks in Jeff’s throat.  _ I thought I was staying here _ . He understands where Oliver is coming from, sure; he’s slept around a  _ lot  _ the past few nights, but it still stings. Oliver doesn’t know the situation Jeff’s in. Jeff’s not sure he’s ready for how much it’ll hurt once he figures it out.

“I can handle myself,” Jeff says defensively. “I’ve handled myself for six months.”

“You weigh less than my fifteen year old sister, your hair is falling out in fucking clumps, and you’re hooked on Xanax.” Oliver raises a brow. “Not to mention I thought I’d have to take you to the ER a few nights ago.” Jeff winces as he recalls that - he’d had a near mental breakdown once his body realized it wasn’t gonna get alcohol. “Yeah, I’d say you’re handling yourself fucking well.” 

“I’m alive, that’s what matters.” Jeff snaps the binder shut and shoves it back into his bag. “The people who killed my parents weren’t . . . human. This isn’t something I can just go to the police about.” 

“How do you know they weren’t human?” 

Jeff swallows, remembering the clown and the way he just . . .  _ moved _ . The one with gray skin. The boy that seemed to be just  _ slightly  _ transparent. “You should’ve seen them.” 

He still isn’t convinced. “And you’re sure you just weren’t hallucinating?” 

“They  _ didn’t _ ,” Jeff snaps. “Why don’t you believe me?” 

“Did you really just ask me that? While you’ve got a bottle of Xanax in your bag?” Jeff’s face burns. Guess he hadn’t hidden them well enough. “I’d maybe believe you if you weren’t snorting prescription medication every time I turn my back. And if it’s not that, it’s alcohol.” 

“I . . . I hadn’t ever . . .” Jeff fumbles for words and it’s humiliating. He wants to run. “I hadn’t ever done that before. I wasn’t high. And they didn’t drug me. I can’t go to the police. They’ll just blame me.”

Oliver frowns. “Why would the police blame you?” 

“Look at my fucking face. It’d be easier for them to blame it on me than looking for who did it.” That’s convincing enough. Yeah, Oliver looks like he’s falling for it. Jeff puts his hands under his thighs - he tends to pick at his nails when he’s nervous, and Oliver’s an insanely perceptive motherfucker. It’s what Jeff gets for fucking a psychology major. “Um,” he continues nervously, “I’ll, uh, try to stop if I . . . can I stay here?” 

Oliver groans and shuts his laptop. “Yeah, but you’re sleeping on the couch. And I’m taking all of your shit. And I’m making you take drug tests.” 

“That’s . . . a bit overkill.” 

“Look, I don’t feel like having the police sniffing up my ass when you end up killing yourself on a bad trip in my bathroom,” Oliver retorts. “I’ve got more conditions.” 

Jeff slides down in his chair and groans. 

“You’re learning to cook.” 

“I can make good pasta,” he protests weakly. 

“I’m not gonna make you go to school,” Oliver says, which Jeff is fucking glad for, because Oliver has no idea he’s technically a missing person, “but I am gonna make you at least do some shit on Khan Academy. It might help take your mind off of drugs.” 

Jeff laughs. “What’re you now, my dad?” 

“No,” Oliver grumbles, returning to the stove. “Just looking out for you.” 

“Aww, you do like me or something?” 

“I might. A bit.” 

Jeff hates how good that makes him feel. 


	5. hell and you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which jeff gets railed. again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song is hell and you by amigo the devil

Jeff ends up in Oliver’s bed most nights.

He blames it on the coldness and how stiff Oliver’s cheap couch is so that he doesn’t have to admit to himself that he misses hearing cars passing by his window, or his dad snoring across the hall, or his brother talking in his sleep. Now that he can sleep without worrying about being killed, his head has too much time to itself. 

Oliver always wakes up before him. He has a class at 8, so he usually wakes up at 6. Sometimes he accidentally rouses Jeff, but most mornings Jeff wakes up by himself and panics, not remembering where he is. 

Oliver’s warm, and he has a lot of pillows. Jeff, at first, keeps his distance and sleeps as far across the bed as possible, but eventually he gives it up and ends up pressed against Oliver or tangled up with him in some other fashion. That’s most nights. Some nights, like tonight, they end up rolling around for a few hours. 

After scaring the shit out of Oliver with a suicide threat a few days ago (thanks, withdrawals), he’s a lot more careful with how he touches and speaks to Jeff. Normally Jeff wouldn’t mind it - he thinks it’s kinda sweet - but right now it’s fucking  _ annoying _ . 

“Can you hurry?” he mumbles into the pillows, squinting past his hair to watch as Oliver takes his sweet fucking time preparing him. He isn’t even sure what Oliver’s preparing him for. By the time he’s done, Jeff’s gonna be asleep or dead of old age. 

Oliver’s eyes flicker up with a momentary expression of irritance - that makes Jeff wince - but then he looks neutral again, and Jeff wonders if he’d been seeing things. Jeff balls the fabric in his fists and sighs, pressing his hips against Oliver’s fingers for some sort of friction. The rough fabric against his chest, his nipples, the head of his cock - it’s too much, and it makes him want to punch a wall or tear his hair out. He’ll blame that on the withdrawals and not the fact that he’s embarrassingly sensitive. 

“ _ Please _ ,” Jeff whines. “That’s enough, please, just -” 

“Quiet,” Oliver cuts in sharply, and  _ fuuuck  _ Jeff likes that. 

He listens, at least. How kind. Oliver’s nails feel good digging into Jeff’s thighs. He’s never, not once, mentioned Jeff’s scars. Jeff can feel him looking, though. 

Small gasps turn into barely contained moans as Oliver  _ finally  _ fucking presses into him. Oliver’s fingers feel too cold as they slide against Jeff’s stomach, mindful of the scarring there. Not embarrassing at all. Jeff shivers and bucks his hips again as Oliver strokes his cock. Oliver hums in Jeff’s ear as he bottoms out. Jeff’s already so hard that it doesn’t take much for him to fall apart and cum into the sheets with a muffled groan. 

“Do you need to stop?” Oliver breathes against the shell of his ear. 

“No,” Jeff says breathlessly. “No, keep going, please.” 

Oliver complies, setting an abrupt, punishing pace that wrings a surprised shout from Jeff, bending him nearly in half. His nails dig deeper into Jeff’s skin, hard enough to leave a nasty bruise, and then move to massage the inside of his thighs. 

Jeff jumps a bit when Oliver’s voice is on the other side. 

“Spread your legs a bit for me,” he murmurs. Jeff presses his face into the pillow and complies, and then Oliver’s hands are back to gripping his hips, fucking into him at a slightly different angle that Jeff can feel in his  _ spine _ . 

Like always, it’s too much. Jeff’s eyes burn with tears and he’s trying to focus on breathing, but Oliver doesn’t give him time between his brutal thrusts. He pulls the blankets closer to his face to hide how hard he’s crying. How red his face is.

Jeff collapses when it’s all over, when he’s came for the second time and feels like any more contact will make him violent, and Oliver’s already rummaging around. He sees Oliver’s shadow and quickly wipes his eyes. 

“Hips up,” Oliver says, and Jeff groans and rolls over so Oliver can yank the sheets aside and fall down next to him. He raises a Capri Sun into the air. Jeff pushes down the ache in his chest, barks out an uneasy laugh at the silliness of it all, and takes it. “Drink your sorrows away.” 

“Mm. Thank you.” Jeff curls up closer to him and hates how giddy he feels when Oliver plants a kiss on his sweaty forehead and loops an arm around him to rub his thigh. 

“Don’t mention it,” Oliver murmurs into his ear. “Anything for you.” 

That can mean quite a few things. Jeff doubts it means any of them, even if he wishes with his entire being that it would. 


End file.
